


Merging

by freelancedisaster



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freelancedisaster/pseuds/freelancedisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen has a side project. Lavellan has a few things left to work through. Better than this weak description, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merging

 

 

 

 

 

 

A horde of Red Templars, a myriad of demons, a giant magister darkspawn, and now: humans, angry at what the Inquisiton has supported. When she was working towards a goal, towards saving something, it made sense. Now is different.

Lavellan scowls, sinks onto her bed to draw off the long boots. Blood encrusts the edges of the things. As a mage, she tends to avoid most of the gore, but it finds a way through to show her: this is what she does. She walks through the essence of others.

She scoffs as she stands to draw off the long coat. The Inquisitor, vanquisher of all evils, doubting an act of self-defense. Bull would mock her incessantly. The people would think she'd gone soft.  _Her_ people would wonder at the reluctance to remove ill-intending shems from the world.

She tosses the waist belt belt to the ground, winces at the way the word reverberates in her mind. The title was bred into her with only the gentlest reminders that it was an insult. She was taught to mistrust the humans but not to hate them. She's lucky, she knows; another tribe and she would draw her staff on sight. How well that would have worked for the Inquisition.

The shirt is next. She tugs at the bottom and pulls it up, tossing an idle glance toward the window. It's not as if prejudice is a one-way street; it's arguably worse on the other side, in fact.

A crash of iron turns her head toward the door. Here is Cullen, entering the room with his regular determination. He meets her eye as she tosses the shirt aside, then immediately holds up a hand to block his view and clears his throat. "Oh, I--I'm sorry, I didn't know you were--"

"Cullen," she interrupts gently, "you've seen me far more naked than this, remember? Just the other night, in fact, we were both quite nude.'"

"Well, yes, but." He sighs. "It felt like an intrusion. I'm sorry. It's instinct."

"Ah, yes. The good little Chantry boy resides in you yet." She smirks, removes her pants in a fluid motion to toss at him.

"I'm not a good little--oh! Well, that was rather unnecessary, don't you think?" He catches the pants with a raise of brow and immediately sets about folding them. She giggles, and his cheeks flame. "Maker. It's just--they needed done anyway. Look, I--"

"Oh, no, I understand. Cleanliness is next to godliness and whatnot, and you've been right there with the Ma--" She's cut off, the word turning to a gasp as he charges forward in a fluid motion, catching her bare waist to tug her towards him.

He holds her gaze for a long moment and then slowly leans in. His stubble grazes her cheek, his breath hot on her ear. "If  _you_ recall the other night," he says, low and dangerous, "I'm not always so well-behaved. I could show you again, if you'd like." His lips just brush her ear with the words; her body answers them with a shiver. She tilts her head on instinct as he draws back to part her lips with his own. It is slow, gentle, lazy, lips meeting and then parting: a pause, a return, a hold, a pattern. He yanks her into him with that one hand on her waist, a sigh just barely escaping his lips. This, too, is part of the pattern, but rather than melt into it, her body stiffens.

It is just a straightening of the limbs, but Cullen knows the pattern, too. He pulls back immediately, concern tightening his features. "Lavellan?"

"Rutherford?" she responds. Her tone is light as she steps back, turns to the soft beige Skyhold garments she's laid out. She sits on the bed to draw one leg into them. She doesn't make it to the other before he sits next to her, close enough for intimacy but far enough away for respect.

"Did something happened out there?" he asks. Her peripheral catches his hand move towards her, then drop onto the bed between them.

"Did something--did something happen?" Her voice raises of its own accord; she clears her throat to rear it back in. "Nothing of import. Humans were raising hell in Redcliffe Village, spouting nonsense about--us. They figured that with everything that went down, it would be the best place to challenge the Inquisition, I guess." She grabs the shirt, yanks it over her head, muffling the next few words. "Varric, Sera and I were there, Sera about a contact and Varric to hit up the tavern and tell his stories. They saw us; they were aggressive. Varric was sarcastic, Sera was rude--" she reaches for a boot, shoves her foot into it with enough ferocity to grunt-- "and they attacked. We killed them. All of them."

She reaches for the other boot, her features twisted with anger. This time, Cullen  _does_ touch her, a hand on her shoulder that she shrugs off. She glances to him as he curls his fingers in on themselves, and the gesture is enough to soften her, just a bit. She sighs as she works the boot on. "Cullen, they didn't have to die. They had families. They had people that loved them."

"Lavellan." He sighs. "What you did was out of self-defense. You said yourself that they attacked you."

"Do you know why they attacked us? What was wrong with the Inquisition?" She narrows her eyes at him, pushes off the bed to march to the window with crossed arms. "Me. I was wrong. They had a problem with an elf running things. Saw me, shouted 'there's the knife-ear!' Varric defended me, Sera defended me, and they--attacked. They died because I'm Dalish, that's all."

A long silence and then, quiet and hesitant, stumbling on each syllable: "Ir abelas, ma sa'rath." Her arms fall to her side as she turns, slowly. There stands Cullen, near the bed where she left him, his lips holding the faintest hint of a smile.

"Wh--what?"

He clears his throat and then repeats, slowly, carefully: "Ir abelas, ma sa'rath. I'm sorry, my only--"

"I  _know_  what it means." She shakes her head. "How did you--where did you--?"

"I know that leading us is not easy for you." He takes one step forward, another. "Your Keeper, she still sends letters, but they are fewer and farther between. I see humans that look at you with curiosity, as if you are an unknown creature, and I see Dalish greet you with mistrust. It must be--quite difficult. So I am learning."

"You're--learning--Elvish?" She tilts her head.

"I'm trying. It wasn't easy." He offers a small laugh. "I had Josephine write a very convincing plea to the Exalted Plains. They may not trust either of us, but they do trust you. Their Keeper refused staunchly at first to tell his tales to an outsider, but we pressed. He agreed to pass on knowledge to me in exchange for a portion of what our nearby soldiers gathered and my word that this was for you and no one else. I will learn your languages, your stories, your rites, a lesson for a bushel."

"Abusing Inquisition resources," she murmurs.

"See? I'm not always a good little Chantry boy." He crosses the rest of the room to stand in front of her but still does not touch her. Her gaze falls to the floor. "Look, I wanted to tell you that you didn't have to do this alone. Your culture, your life before this was entirely different from what it is, now, and hardly anyone acknowledges that. When it is mentioned, it seems to be only to harm. I didn't want you to have to do this alone. So as you meld your culture, I will meld mine." He runs a hand through his curls, sighs. "I intended to tell you months from now, when I'd learned more than a few paltry phrases, but I can't watch you suffer like this." He reaches out to grab her hand. "You're not--mad, are you?"

"Mad?" She lifts her gaze to meet his own, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She is overcome again, but with the opposite of her anger, lifted instead of filled. "How could I possibly be mad?" She pulls on his hand to draw him in, throws her arms around him. "You're too good for me, you know that?"

A chuckle escapes him as his hands move to encircle her waist, drawing her closer. "Says the woman who saved the world," he murmurs, planting a kiss on the crown of her head.

She burrows her face into his chest. Here is where her home is; here is where anger can turn to sorrow. "Not all of it."

"There will be bloodshed yet. Everyone will leave this world in the end, Lavellan. If it is by your hand, you are not the one at fault." He draws her away, bringing his hands up to hold her shoulders as she tries to lean back in. "I haven't seen you kill even the smallest creature without reason. You are too good for this world, and so it makes sense that you would feel this way." He moves a hand to cradle her face. "But you are too compassionate. Don't you see? Mourning your enemies will tear you apart. I can't watch that happen. I won't  _let_ it happen."

Her lip curls into an imitation of his smirk. "Is that an order,  _Commander?_ "

"Absolutely." He draws her in again, and his lips find hers. He kisses her just once, slow and lingering in a way that sends heat to the tip of her toes, and then pulls back to rest his forehead on her own. "Ma'arlathan."

A grin splits her features as her arms again find their way around him, and as she curls in, all feels right.

"I love you, too."

 

**Author's Note:**

> annnd there we go. this is my first piece of work on here, so i may not have everything down as far as "this is how it's supposed to look/this is how you credit/etc. down. be gentle with me!


End file.
